


Apocalypse, Again.

by Wikiaddicted723



Category: Fringe
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:00:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wikiaddicted723/pseuds/Wikiaddicted723
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by Subject 13, AU. Olivia wonders if mental illnesses can be contagious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apocalypse, Again.

He sees her in his dreams.

 

It doesn’t matter how tired he gets, or how deep his sleep; he’s just turned thirty-five years old and he can’t remember a time when she did not appear to him in slumber. It doesn’t matter that he’s sure he’s never met her, never even seen her on any of the streets he’s walked through in his perpetually nomadic existence, it doesn’t matter that he’s convinced himself that she’s not real, because it doesn’t matter how far his feet take him, she’s always _there_ invading his head with memories of days, of years, he’s sure he has never lived. And yet, he finds himself in them too, next to her, most times beside her in some sort of supernatural governmental operation that he’s sure his twisted mind has conjured up, and they joke and they laugh, and scream, and cry, and fight, sometimes each other. But they’re always together, and after a time they drink, and they laugh some more, joke some more, and they love.  And he _stays_.

 

This simple fact reassures him on the days where he wonders if he’s losing his mind, if he’s more like his father than what he’d wish, because there’s only one thing Peter Bishop never does: it doesn’t matter how much he likes where he is, or how many friends he’s made, Peter Bishop _neve_ r stays, Peter Bishop _cannot_ stay. To do so would be to go against the very instinct that has kept him alive for so long, sometimes against the odds; it would make him vulnerable, he’s sure, and he doesn’t like the idea of vulnerability because in his line of work, in his line of _life_ really, to care is to die. And Peter doesn’t want to die, he knows that much.

 

He sits on a plane that day, as he muses on his state of mind, a plane he doesn’t want to be in, that’s going to a place he hoped never to go back to. But he cannot help it, because there’s another thing that makes Peter Bishop who he is: even though he doesn’t want to care sometimes, just sometimes, he does. And right now he cares because he promised his mother, his very _dead_ mother, to take care of the ones close to him, and it doesn’t matter that he wishes not to be there because it’s his father on the line this time, and whether he likes it or not he’s the only thing Walter’s got left, so he sits on a plane, the light buzzing of the air conditioner lulling him ever so gently to sleep. And as always, sleep brings dreams, and dreams mean _her_.

 

When he wakes next it is to a hand gently shaking his shoulder, a voice in his ear telling him he’s arrived to the place he dreads the most, and he feels cold sweat make it’s way slowly down his shirt, and he feels his burning skin, and he knows that he has dreamt of her, and that it wasn’t a very pleasant dream. From what vague images remain in his brain he remembers something about a machine and two people who should be the same but were not, and something about the end of the world, and he laughs at his antiques. He brushes it off as anxiety, tells himself it’s nothing more than nerves. After all, it’s been years since he last saw his crazy father.

He carries no luggage as he leaves the airport, a black FBI issued SUV patiently awaiting him as he makes his way out the automated crystal doors, he does not plan on being there too long.

 

As he reaches the vehicle it’s driver comes out to greet him, and he feels a gripping sense of déjà – vu, stronger than ever before as the kind brown eyes of a dark skinned woman settle on him. She extends her hand to him, and he shakes it. He tries his hardest to figure out where he’s seen her before, all to no avail.

 

“Peter Bishop?” she asks, though the way she says it makes Peter think she’s already got her answer.

 

“That’d be me.” He says, still shaking her hand, noticing the way she looks at him, and he’s astounded by the nostalgia in her eyes.

 

“I’m Agent Astrid Farnsworth.” She says quietly, making her way back to the driver’s door as he quickly takes his place on the passenger seat beside her, intent on getting things over with as soon as humanely possible, still a tad confused at how his mentally ill father had managed to get himself into FBI custody.

 

888

 

Her day couldn’t get worse, she thinks, her head cradled in her hands, elbows resting firmly on her knees as she sits outside the interrogation room where a pretty much crazy scientist hasn’t stopped babbling about his missing son. What unnerves her most, more than the senseless rambling, is the way the man looks at her, in a fatherly, almost guilty way, a look that says he _knows_ her in ways she has never imagined, a look that says he cares for her. But she thinks she too must be crazy, as she has never met the man before, no matter how familiar he seems. She blames it on sleep deprivation; a sleep deprivation she has forced on herself in trying to escape the world her mind evokes every night, and the man it brings with it. She’s tired of waking up in the morning, disoriented and alone, looking for the warmth she was sure would be behind her, his arms around her, his kiss on her bare shoulder. She’s tired of longing for someone she has never met, someone she will never meet. Those kinds of things, that sort of feelings…they’re not for her, and she’s come to accept that, she stares at it every day, every morning of waking up alone with memories of years that never happened.

 

Her phone rings, it’s shrill pitch disrupting the illusion of calm that has settled into her hunched figure as she reaches for the answer button.

 

“Dunham.” She answers, her poker face back where it belongs as she straightens herself up, trying to smooth the wrinkles on the fabric of her gray shirt with the palm of her hand.  She listens to the voice at the other end of the phone, nodding as she stands up and signals a guard to stay at the door while she goes outside.

 

“Ok, Astrid, I’ll be there in a minute.” She says, her jaw set grimly, her face determined as she hangs up on her assistant, the only person besides her sister that she can call a friend since Charlie Francis got himself killed on the job.

Bishop junior is here, and it is her job to bring him in for questioning before he can see his father, before they can get answers out of him if that is even possible. She runs a hand through her pulled up hair, sighing as she pushes the door open and goes down the stairs to stop cold as the passenger door opens and out comes the worst of her fears, the most secret of her wishes. Her blood runs cold in her veins, and yet it boils, bubbling up from the center of her chest, her fingertips tingling as if electrically charged, the hair on the back of her neck rising steadily. She’s frozen, her eyes watching everything around her in perfect definition as she struggles to focus on the man before her, even though she knows his features like she knows the back of her hand, having burned every detail into her photographic memory long ago. She can make out every detail in his deep blue eyes, every different tone in every different fleck of his irises, and she struggles to remain composed, to keep her poker face in place, because she’s tired of delusions and it downs on her that it doesn’t matter how many times she thinks she’s met him in her dreams, she doesn’t know the man that stands before her now looking equally befuddled before his expression changes into one of amusement, a small smirk spreading itself throughout his face.

 

She fights the urge to slap it away as she steps down from the final step, standing before him at last and extending her hand towards him, feeling him grasp it firmly with his own, the inherent strength in him making itself known in the steadiness of his hand against hers.

 

“Mr. Bishop, My name’s Olivia Dunham.” She says steadily, wondering why he still hasn’t let go of her hand.

 

“Pleased to meet you, Olivia Dunham,” he replies, his eyes searching for something she cannot, will not give.

 

And he is indeed pleased, if not pleasantly surprised after his shock recedes, as he sees her in front of him, her form no longer ethereal, surrounded by the fuzziness inherent in sleep, but physically there, her limbs lithe as they support her, intelligent green eyes staring at him so intensely he’s sure she’s looked into the deepest recesses of his soul, and though uncomfortable he realizes it does not bother him; it is then that he shakes himself, puts his defenses back up and smirks in mock amusement that is solely directed at himself, because it doesn’t matter how much he wants to be closer to her, see if every little detail he remembers from endless nights is actually there, in her face, her body, her mind; she is a stranger, and he doesn’t know her. He wonders if he has finally snapped, if this is all some sort of waking dream, hallucination, he wonders if he’s finally gone the deep end and lost it. After all, the apple often doesn’t fall far from the tree.

 

He then remembers why he’s there, why he had to leave the closest thing he has to a life to come to a place an ocean apart, a place he didn’t, shouldn’t be in. He reluctantly lets go of her hand; his own making it’s way into the pocket of his pea coat as his face manages to loose it’s warmth, the business end of his stare now directed at Olivia in full force. She has to make an effort not to flinch at the sudden change, but she’s determined to hold his stare with her own, this is a dare and she never backs down.

 

“So, where’s my father?” he asks, his voice grave.

 

“He’s upstairs,” she replies, equally businesslike,  “but I need to talk to you about the situation before you’re allowed to see him” she explains.

 

“Isn’t that what we’re doing just now?” he replies sarcastically, a caustic grin adorning his lips, “Talking about the situation?” he elaborates, trying to get a reaction out of her stone – cold face; he knows he has succeeded when he sees a single blonde eyebrow rise in derision. His smile only widens.

 

She fights back a snort, thinking it unprofessional, and turns her back towards him.

 

“Follow me,” she says, choosing to ignore him, her voice more commanding than she meant it to be but it can’t be helped. She hates mind games, but realizes that she expected nothing less from him, wanted to hear it even if only to grasp another impossible parallel between dreams and what seemed to be reality, to make sure that it was indeed _him_ standing before her. She wonders if mental illnesses can be contagious, she has, after all, been stuck inside an interrogation room with crazy Bishop number one all morning.

 

“As you command, _sweetheart”_ he replies from behind her, emphasizing the last word in a way that makes it seem as if he’s spit it instead of merely saying it aloud, and her heart pounds when she hears him, her back to him, her face showing surprise before she manages to slip back into the comfortable mask of indifference. She turns back at him, her anger at his ease in eliciting unwanted emotions from her barely in check, and stares him down into silence, wishing that for once looks could kill.

 

“Call me that again, I’d really like that.” She says, hostility inherent in the tightness of her voice, climbing back up the steps without waiting for a response. He struggles not to bite back at her with one of the thousands of remarks his 190 IQ has supplied him with in the last three seconds, but he manages to trample down on that thought before it runs away from his head and out his lips, he has somehow convinced himself that now was not the time, so he tucks his tail between his legs and follows her, not even trying to fight the irrational pull he feels towards this woman he has barely met; a sensation so strong it feels like gravity itself and he knows he has not the strength nor the will to go against it, he has always been better when he lets himself go with the flow.

 

Neither of them is there to watch Astrid as she follows their retreating figures up the steps, a tiny tear making its way down the side of her face before she has the time to wipe it away, she rolls her eyes at them and smiles; some things never change after all. And she was going to have to warn Walter, not surprised that the not so crazy scientist was right yet again.

 

Peter Bishop might not know it, but this time…he stays.

 

888

 

 

He has been interrogated, his son’s figure leaning against the dull gray wall opposite him, his eyes analyzing both the questioner and the questioned as he tries to make sense of it all, no doubt, and he has thereafter been left to rest there alone with his thoughts. He catches a look from dear Astrix as she brings him his latest craving; a batch of fresh, chocolate covered Devil Dogs. She looks at him mischievously before motioning with her curly head towards Peter and Agent Dunham, who are now speaking to each other, discussing the whys and hows of Walters latest stay at the Federal building, unconsciously invading each other’s personal space as they take slow sips from steaming cups of coffee, eyeing each other incessantly.

 

Walter laughs to himself, winking at dear Astridge as he rises from his chair, grabbing his ever – shaky hands in each other as he calls to Agent Dunham, motioning her over.

 

“Yes, Dr. Bishop?” she asks, her curiosity piqued.

 

“My dear, I was wondering if I might make a phone call…I believe I do have a right to make one while incarcerated, am I right?” he asks innocently, his voice soft. She looks surprised at his request if not entirely unsettled by her familiarity to him.

 

“Well, you’re not technically _incarcerated_ Walter,” Peter says, stepping in, looking at Olivia with a sly look in his eyes, “you’re being kept safe, isn’t that right, Agent Dunham?” she looks between the two Bishop men and fights the urge to roll her eyes, wondering why their dynamic seems so familiar, so comfortable.

 

 

“Yes, that’s right,” she says dryly, trying to focus solely on the elder Bishop as Peter stands behind her, his body heat radiating towards her in waves, “But off course you can make a phone call, Walter.” She says, not noticing that she has called him by his first name, or that she has unconsciously leaned back towards Peter as he unconsciously comes to stand behind her, his stance relaxed and yet, protective.

She leads him towards the phone, pats his back and leaves him alone to resume her inspection of another file.

 

Walter dials the now familiar number slowly, double checking every cipher as he does so, not completely trusting his sometimes – faulty memory, and he holds the phone to his year, hearing it ring once, twice, before she picks up.

 

“Hello?” comes the voice of Nina Sharp from the other end of the line.

 

“I was right” Walter states as a form of salute, and she swears she can hear the smug smile in his tone.

 

“Right about what, Walter?” she asks, slightly annoyed that he has called her to brag about his latest discovery.

 

“ _It_ has happened…I told you, Nina, I said they’d find each other, didn’t I?” she straightens in her seat, the possibilities of what Walter implies seem absurd, but she has seen too much in her life to doubt the truth in his words.

 

“But, Walter, so soon?  Do they remember? Do they _know_ each other?” the questions fall unbidden from her lips.

 

“Oh, not yet, no… but they will,” Walter says, excited, “the – they are like magnets Nina, just as I theorized, it doesn’t matter what we do to them or how far we separate them, they _will_ find each other.” He conveniently forgets to mention his _minuscule_ involvement in Peter’s stay in Boston, but then, he is only hastening something that would have happened naturally in a few years time. And he wants so desperately to see his son smile the way only Olivia can make him, if only for what little time they might have left.

 

She keeps quiet for a moment before she replies, her voice weary.

 

“Is there nothing you can do to delay it…like you did the last time?”

 

“The last time, Nina, I had to drug them to the point of an overdose and shock their brains repeatedly during _two days_ just to _hide_ their memories of each other deep into their subconscious, against their will, risking fatal brain damage,” Walter says, irritated and more sane than he has felt in months, “I will not do that again…. I cannot risk them so.”

 

“You do realize our universe depends on this, Walter, don’t you?” Nina replies, trying her hardest to convince him to do something.

 

“Yes…I know,” his voice is quiet, the regret he feels consuming him, “But they deserve to be happy.” His answer surprises her into silence, and she has to agree.

 

“You realize he’s going to kill you when he figures out what you did, don’t you? If Olivia doesn’t shoot you first, that is.” She can’t keep the smile from her voice.

 

“Yes, I know.” He replies in an annoyed voice, he has already made his peace with it. He doesn’t need a reminder of the damage he has done to his son, to Olivia, yet again.

 

“I’ll call Phillip.” Nina says, already hanging up on him.

 

“…Yes, please do so.” He sighs into the now dead line, before he hangs the phone. They were going to need all the help they could get.

 

After all, one could never be _too_ careful when preparing for the end of the world…again.


End file.
